


why, what a big mouth you have, sir

by evergreen_dryad



Category: Puppet History (Web Series), Watcher Entertainment
Genre: AU where the Prof hosts online classes, Crack Treated Seriously, I don't know what else to tag, Innuendo, Orgasm, Other, shitpost fic, what if putting your hand in a puppet is the equivalent of BEEP, written by my braincells misfiring @ 2am and other times of stress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:34:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evergreen_dryad/pseuds/evergreen_dryad
Summary: You have always wanted to meet the Professor in person, get to know him the only way a puppet and a human can.
Relationships: The Professor/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 13





	why, what a big mouth you have, sir

**Author's Note:**

> hope y'all get a laugh in these terrible times  
> I have no shame anymore

It all begins as you attend the online classes of the Professor during the quarantine. He is the only face you see on your screen as he natters away about varied history facts, day to day as he hosts livestreams, taking responses from the chat.

You cannot help it. Gradually you learn to love that face, as the Professor wags his mouth with tongue-in-cheek jokes, or to exit stage in a dramatic gasp, or to yell thunderously at Ryan Bergara.

You cannot help but want to do your best for him, to earn the coveted title of the History Master each time, to earn his affection.

You cannot help but fall in love with The Professor.

The quarantine lifts as all things will, but life does not go on as it must. You want to meet him, the light of your life, star of the show.

Eventually, you get the chance to. You have worked tremendously hard for this moment, after all. Let us not say what favours you have had to swap, strings you've had to pull or even forcibly yank, to stand in this moment of time right now.

You clear your throat, nervous, anticipatory. This is it — your first meeting with him. You exchange greetings, the usual.

And then:

"I mean, Professor, sir," You say demurely, lowering your voice, "I am a great fan of you. A _Watcher_ of your show, if you will."

His googly eyes stare at you, almost bewildered. You find it endearing. You want to find out if you can make those eyes shake in their sockets. 

He coughs and shudders a laugh, seeming almost bashful. "Of course! Good pun, I almost forgot the channel I'm being publicised on. Thank you!"

You've always loved seeing those cute little button eyes encircled by those round spectacles. The shine of them, whenever he speaks, wherever he is on the stage.

Could you ask for more? This secret desire of yours, to know him better, to have him in your arms? You swallow.

Your nervousness must translate to The Professor because the silence, the spaces between your words seem charged, suffused with awkward tension.

"I have a request, sir." You say softly into the dim light. You take in a deep breath for strength.

"Go on," he murmurs, almost as if not in control of his actions.

"May I...?" You ask, voice trembling from the audacity of such a request. The sheer indecency of it, to a venerated being like The Professor. The very notion makes you quiver, your knees wanting to drop out. You finally cough it out. 

"May I... slip my hand into you?" Your voice creaks out on the last word as a whisper. 

Silence. The dust shivers in the air around you. You could ground up glass in your throat from how rough it feels.

You are about to take it back as a joke, laugh it off and slip out, when:

"... Sir. "

" Huh?" You say, the force of your beating heart has momentarily deafened you. You hadn't heard the entirety of what The Professor said, but his head is dipped in shadow. You can't read his face expression. Not that it emotes much in the first place. 

"Say sir, please."

You can finally breathe again, that is what it feels like. Colour bursts into being, you are alive, your red blood inside your veins is throbbing, _singing_. " _Sir_ ," you say reverentially. Your voice wobbles comically as you drop to a knee.

He does not answer, his head does not turn. You know what to say. You beam. "May I slip my hand into you _please,_ sir?" Your tongue lingers over the please like it's honey dripping out of your lips.

He gives in with a sigh, with a flop of his self onto the table. He still doesn't look at you. "Go on," He murmurs.

Your hand slowly creeps through the air before you like a pale spider. You watch it caress the entrance, circle the fluff around the hole, gently part his legs with two fingers. 

He moans. He's whimpering out loud. He's been gaping at the ceiling the entire time, head minutely trembling from how hard he's been holding it in. 

"Just put it in, hurry up," He growls, glaring when he notices you staring. 

"But you seem to be enjoying yourself," you reply, cheeky smile growing on your flushed cheeks. "First times should always be taken slow, no?" 

He shoots you a dirty look. "This ain't my first rodeo, buckaroo. I can handle the entire hand, don't you worry about me."

You smile. He's so cute, splayed out before you like this, but still not facing you. "I know."

You fit your entire hand inside of him, going slowly, savouring the experience. How soft. How warm. He fits like a glove. You stretch your hand inside, and he stretches, arches his back, crooning. 

Your nail scratches at a spot central in his anatomy, and he loses it, head shaking. 

You make him sing for you. You make him move with you, reaching up inside of him to pinch the very top, watch his large, red mouth gape even wider. 

"How come you don't react like this when your God does the same thing?" You breathe, nerves tingling as you pant in tandem with The Professor. 

"It's not the same," He groans gutturally, glasses going askew, " _oooohhhhh,_ it's not."

"Oh?" Your voice deepens. You feel very proud of yourself. Almost feels silly to be jealous of the man who created The Professor, who gets to be with him in a way no one else can. "How so?" 

He murmurs something you can't catch. "...there's no sense of shame, not with Shane." His head rolls back, almost wheezing, the tone of voice as he lingers on his creator's name almost suspicious. 

Your eyelids flicker. "Shall I... up the ante now?" 

You make a fist inside of him, and he collapses. He shudders, wailing. And you —

Close your eyes, and let stars explode in the dark of your vision as well. Your hand tingles. It feels numb. It feels moist. Most of all, it feels like a firework, spent. 

The Professor seems to agree with you, eyes drooping, still shaking like pinballs.

Your lips brush against each other. You feel over-sensitive. Your fingers emerge out of him one at a time, and you begin to trace upwards to his coat and shirt. The American Doll clothes. You’ve always wanted to know if they could be taken off. Were they glued on, sewed on, or genuinely tucked in and buttoned? 

Now is your chance to find out. 

He croaks almost weakly, "What are you doing...?" 

You hum, taken aback. Embarrassed, you lift your hand away. "Ah, I just wanted to see-" 

He gives you a look of beady-eyed reproach. "Ask before you approach." Your stomach flutters. It's one of The Professor's aphorisms you'll treasure forever. 

You smile sweetly as you bring up The Professor —

"Uhh," Someone calls your name almost hesitantly, and clears his throat with a laugh. It's Shane. You hadn't heard the door open. 

"You doing alright over there?"

You turn around. There he is, loping in with a deceptively easy gait. "Shall I... leave you alone in here some more, am I interrupting something?" 

You laugh, a little awkwardly, a smile on your flushed cheeks.

And so you both laugh. 

"Oh I'm just," you say breathily, after you've recovered, "enacting a little roleplay over here. What if The Professor is sentient, and all that. How he'd react to a fan, and all that." You wink. 

And you let him go. 

Shane laughs, an audible note of relief in his laugh, and you leave him empty on the table, sitting on his rump. 


End file.
